Dying To Live
by mng042197
Summary: Violet and Tate are dying and they know it. Bound by their shared illness and limited time, the two make a pact to live one last summer to the fullest before they commit the unthinkable. Yet the two find that there is much more to be learned about death.
1. Prologue: Finis

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

"We don't have to do it right this minute." she told him, hoping to alleviate some of his nerves. His hand shook in hers, clutching to her pale white fingers for dear life. But he was so tired, so sick. She hated to see him so miserable.

They were both going to die. It was only a matter of time—when and where the final moment would find them. It could be at school, in the hospital, at home. Tate and Violet had known each other casually for years, but had never had a reason to really _know_ one another until now. It was illness that had initially brought them together and this union was no different. It was cancer, too extensive to be healed. Neither of them would have the chance to live much longer, but they hated the idea of wasting away.

Tate wanted to be brave. He didn't want to hesitate. He wanted to make Violet feel safe, make her feel comfortable to be with him in those final moments. This was all that they would ever have, but it was difficult. He had assumed that dying would be easy. He had been so close so many times. But, now that the time had actually come, he found himself terrified. He didn't know what he would find on the other side, if he would be judged, forgiven or condemned. He wasn't sure that he had been a good person, wasn't sure that he had been a bad one either. And he hated the notion of leaving the world without being sure.

Violet found it hard to think. Her mind had been slowly slipping away as the disease progressed, but she could still make her own decisions. She didn't want to get too sick. She didn't want to forget things, people. She wanted to die with her memories, with Tate, with the consolation that she had lived her life fully. She wanted to die alive. And, as she watched Tate shiver beside her, she knew that this was right. Human emotion was something she craved, something she needed. To wither away in its absence would be insufferable.

A tear fell from her eye as she looked at him, so broken, but so strong. He had endured so much pain—just like her. "Tate, do you not want to do this?" She didn't want to force him, didn't want to take away his life when he wasn't ready to give it up yet.

He shook his head in denial. "I want to, Vi. I'm just saying goodbye. I need to say goodbye."

It was easy to understand what he meant. They were young…very young. The world seemed so new and wonderful, and yet it had too quickly become a dark place. They had run from it for as long as they could, pretended to be a part of the vitality. But they had not been able to outrun time, to outrun nature or destiny. Eventually, reality had found them, in a place where they didn't think reality ever could be found.

He squeezed her hand lovingly, kissed each of her knuckles, held her slender finger against his cheek for a moment, wanting desperately to remember her like this—human, vulnerable and, most importantly, in love with him. Nothing seemed to matter besides that, and he felt more at peace as he realized this truth. She was everything. Without her, there would be no point to living, or even dying.

The pistols rested in their other hands. With a knowing look, they made their choice. This would be the end of the road, the end of their story—twisted and shrouded in darkness and tribulation. Yet, they wouldn't have traded it for the world. They know the truth. This is all they will ever need, for eternity. As their lips meet, they bring the barrels of the guns to rest on each other's temples. The metal almost pulses over that point on Violet's scull: the source of all her troubles. She thinks it's beautiful, in a way, and so does he, much better than the fate that they would face otherwise.

As their lips move against one another, their hands intertwine, they pull the trigger, and it's all over. It was what they set out to do from the very beginning, but it's more. This was what they had wanted, even before they had known it: to die loved and unafraid, in the arms of the person that they could never be without. In the end, they are Romeo and Juliet—star-crossed lovers, their wounds symbols of their love and dedication, their unfailing faith that this was what was best for them. They were not dead, only resting, forever, hearts and souls interlaced in a knot that could never be undone.


	2. Bargain

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

It was late Spring, Violet's fifteenth birthday. But she wasn't celebrating. She wasn't happy or even excited. She was miserable. The news had been delivered to her parents just the week before, and things were moving fast. The operation had failed. Not only that, the cancer had grown to the point where it was inoperable. There was no hope left. This was the end. This would be her life—the small bit of time that she would be allowed to spend there in the world.

School would be coming to an end soon. It would, most likely, be her last year as she would, more likely than not, be too sick to attend the following semester. She would have said goodbye to her friends if she'd had any. And she would have tried to comfort her parents if she had thought she could help them in any way. But neither of them was really there anymore. Violet's illness, her pain, had destroyed them. They would never be the same again, and she would have no choice but to leave them alone, to hate each other with nothing between them, nothing to hold them together. Ben and Vivien had once been in love, but Violet couldn't see it anymore. She had always thought that their kind of romance was what she wanted, the subject of her dreams, but that fantasy had long vanished. It was all a farce.

That was what had brought her to the farthest corner of the school grounds that day. It was warm and the sun shone upon her pale skin. The breeze felt nice, and she wanted the world to remain this way forever, stored within her very last thought. The pills in her bag, she had stolen from a girl's locker: heavy sleeping pills. It would be easy, she tried convinced herself, sitting down on the short grass and leaning her back up against the fence. This would be peaceful. She could just slip away.

But as she began to think of all the things that she wanted to do, all of the things that she had done and all of the things that she would never do, she found herself losing her nerve. It was becoming harder and harder to bring the fist-full of medication to her mouth, to swallow it, to think of letting go. Instead, she simply watched her hands quiver, wondering why in the world she was even bothering to hesitate.

Tate had had the same thoughts, when he was sitting in the clinic the day before. His cancer was no longer responding to treatments. In fact, he had even seen that one girl again, the same one that he had seen so many times it seemed crazy, with her long, straight brown hair and wide brown eyes. She never looked at him, only at her hands, the pained expressions on her parents' faces. That day, he had decided that he couldn't die alone, couldn't die without being sure that he was ready. He wondered if he would ever be sure. It was what he wanted—to die before the disease could kill him, while he was still himself. But it was so hard to take the leap, so hard to let it all go so easily, so willingly.

It was fate that day, when he happened to walk past where she was, to see the tears running down her face. Any other day, he might have just passed by, but today, he felt particularly alone. He wondered what made her cry, what had broken her heart which, to him, had always seemed so strong. He wanted to know her, to know her pain, mainly because he knew that he wanted for somebody to know his—to know who he was, deep down inside of himself. He wanted someone to know that he wasn't as scary as he seemed, as unapproachable. He didn't want to die a monster. So, he sat down beside her.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, seeing the pills in her hands. He knew, but he didn't want to believe it. If she couldn't endure what she faced, how would he ever be able to?

"What's it to you?" She felt so weak, so vulnerable, but she wouldn't let him see it.

"Relapse?" He was almost sure that was it. He was in the exact same place. Instead of risking speaking, risking a break in her voice, Violet just nodded, another tear sliding down her cheek. "Me too. I've seem you around for as long as I can remember. We've both been in it for the long hall, huh?"

His casual tone made her laugh bitterly. "Not anymore…not for me, anyway. It's over. By this time next year, I won't be around." When she looked at him, he gestured to him himself. She understood, but asked regardless, just to be sure. "You, too?" He shook his head yes and she looked at him sadly. He did understand, then. "I guess, I thought if I took these…if I did it now, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. I don't want to suffer. I want to still be able to _feel_ when I leave, you know?"

And he did indeed.

They didn't say much else, only sat there together for the longest time. Eventually, she put the pills back in the bottle, mumbling something along the lines of 'just a little while longer.' They were friends after that, in some strange, inexplicable way, drowning together in their own hopelessness. So, when the sun had begun to set, she finally said what she had been thinking all along.

"How long do you have? Did they tell you?"

His reply did not bring her any comfort. "Six months…maybe a little more." It was so much longer than she had.

And then, something hit her. "What if we made a list, you and I? We could do all the things we really wanted to. We'll spend our one last summer the way we wanted to spend the rest of our lives."

"And at the end…?" Tate spurred her on.

The answer was simple. "Well, I know what I plan to do. I don't know about you, but I don't want to hang on until the very end. Obviously."

He agreed, completely empathized with her pain, her fear. Wasting away was worse than dying. It evoked the worst possible terror and disappointment. Tate felt that too. "I think you're right." The words were binding, sealing both their fate.

Violet already knew what they should do. "Let's do it together. I know you don't know me, but we have something in common. We can understand each other's struggle. And wouldn't it be easier that way?"

He didn't know, but he trusted her.

"The name's Tate Langdon, by the way."

And, with a dazzling smile, Tate knew that he would follow that girl anywhere. The world only stole away the last pieces of his broken little heart.

"Violet Harmon."


	3. Savior

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Just what Violet meant that day was not quite clear. They each had an idea, but they didn't discuss it. Darkness was what they avoided, what they ran from. To spend too much time in it was deadly. Their time would come, but it was not time yet. Tate had thought of it far too much, the pain he could cause and the damage he could do, ways that he could make others suffer with him. It was comforting sometimes, to see the way the people around him—other patients—would grow sicker than him. It made him feel lucky, sick as that sounded. Then, he was reminded that it would soon be him, and someone else, someone farther from death, would take comfort in his pain, hiss loss and sorrow.

Violet didn't see things the same way. She didn't want to cause pain. In fact, she wanted to avoid it. She took it upon herself to experience the suffering that she saw personally. There was very little inner struggle within her. All there was—what broke her heart and made her bleed—was the sorrow she brought upon others, the pitiful glances and the uncontrollable circumstances. She had wrecked so much of her life, her family member's lives. She had hurt the people she loved most in the world, and she hated herself for it. The scars from the surgeries were a punishment: fair game for the havoc that she had wreaked. That was justice.

It was uncomfortable at first, awkward between the two of them. They had exchanged phone numbers, promised to call each other that very night. When Violet answered, Tate had stumbled over his words, though he was usually charismatic. She wasn't quite the same as anyone he had ever known before, though he didn't really know her. With the rest of the world, he had to act, had to pretend that he wasn't condemned, wasn't doomed. Violet Harman understood. She could see him for what he was, because she was just the same.

To him, her voice was soft but assertive, something that he quickly decided he liked in her. "So, what do we do now?" he asked, running a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his breath and the gesture seemed to accompany it well.

It was hard to say what they should do next, Violet found, as she hadn't had the slightest idea, even when she had suggested it. Perhaps, it had been a mistake. Of course, it had been. She hadn't been in her right mind, hadn't been thinking straight. "Listen, I don't think it's a good idea…I don't need to pull you into my life…involve you in my problems." She had serious doubts that he would be able to do what she planned to, the course of action that she had promised herself she would follow through with. "Let's just forget about it. It was a crazy idea anyway. I really haven't been myself lately." But she had, more herself than she ever had been in her whole life.

If he were being honest with himself, Tate would have admitted that he was a little disappointed. "Um…okay. If you ever need anyone to talk to, give me a call." The words were hopeful, but she ignored that.

She swore she wouldn't call him, wouldn't speak to him again. It was a dangerous game she was playing, a game of life and death, heartbreak and saying a peaceful goodbye. Violet refused to complicate things further. The summer would be the same as any other. She would go to the lake with her mother, see her cousins, give them a few more good memories of her, and then, she would finish with a bang.

And she meant that quite literally.

School would end soon, but it couldn't end soon enough. Violet had never been popular. That was a given. But, in the past few months, things had escaladed. She was being targeted as a primary victim, though she had taken her beatings with dignity all semester. However, when Violet fought with dignity, she aimed to annihilate. She didn't lay down and take it; it just wasn't in her blood to endure. She fought back and always got the worse for it, not that she cared much. Just as she never seemed to care that she was near the point of true danger, of injury.

Tate knew this about her, knew that she was small and fragile physically. But she had never complained and so he had always assumed that she had been able to keep things under control, that she hadn't been hurt. It became fairly evident however, that day, that she did not have things under control.

When he walked into the courtyard, there she was, dressed in her usual garb of long sweaters, colored tights and high top sneakers. There were three of them that time, all girls—one yanking at her hair, the other two holding her arms, restraining her. Violet kicked, spit, gnashed her teeth, but it was hopeless. A crowd was forming and Tate found himself somewhere in the middle of it when he finally snapped as her blood spattered across the blacktop. He felt oddly protective of the girl, perhaps because of what he had seen, the things that she had told him, but he knew that he had no alternative options. He would interfere, regardless of the trouble it got him into. He had never been one for rules anyway. A bit of a rebellious streak had always kept him on the edge of suspension and he would be lucky to avoid expulsion after the stunt he was about to pull.

The valley girl never knew what hit her, but he yanked her away roughly and shoved her away. The other two were disposed of just as easily, and he felt no guilt at having hurt them. They had hurt her. Her blood covered the fair skin of her hand as she clutched at her nose, and it made him furious. He jerked away from Violet, planning a surprise attack on the perpetrators, but she already knew what he would do.

"Stop, Tate! Let's just go."

She dragged him away, still in trying to be in charge of the world around her despite everything. He decided that he liked this too, and followed her without protest. She led him out to the hall, into the girl's room where she pushed him with surprising force into one of the stalls.

"Don't you ever do that again. Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in? I won't be responsible for you, Langdon, so don't blame me if they fry you. I never asked you to protect me. I don't need it, okay?"

He knew she didn't need it. She was no weakling. But he wanted to provide her with that security regardless. He wanted to protect her, to never let anything harm her. "I understand. You don't owe me anything. I was just trying to help. It isn't fair for them to do that to you."

She was livid. "Why? Because I'm sick? Because my life is over? I'm no charity case, Tate. I'm just like everybody else. So, why not? Who cares if they break my nose? I don't, not really." She knew that she did, but she wouldn't tell him that. She had told him too much already.

"Not because of any of that…just because you don't deserve it. That's all."

"You don't know me." But he already felt like he did.

"I don't need to know you, Violet."

And what could she say to that?


	4. I Do Solemnly Swear

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Tate thought about that day a lot over the next week. When Thursday night came, he still hadn't seen Violet. She hadn't said a single word to him, hadn't crossed him at all. He wondered if he had done something wrong, if he had said something, or if she just didn't like him. When he thought of her, he thought that she was pretty, kind of perfect in a way that he didn't fully understand. Her complexion was fair and her hair was pin straight. Her eyes were what really intrigued him however; they were bright and deep and Tate was almost sure that, when he looked at them, he was staring directly into her soul. The scars on her hands from her treatments were beautiful to him. They had saved her. And, of course, he had them too.

He lay on his bead for the longest time, just considering everything, the time that he had left. It was hard to think about, the reality that it was really over, that he would vanish from the world in a short period of time, yet he'd considered it so many times. He'd had to; it was the reality of his life, but he had never wanted to accept it. Violet seemed so prepared, so accepting of her fate. She was stronger than him, braver. Her death was a part of who she was—he could grasp the idea—but he couldn't seem to bring himself to the same level of resolution. When his phone rang the first time, he didn't answer. He just sat there, not wanting to move. It rang twice more before he decided that he should answer it.

"Hello?" Tate didn't know who would be calling. Usually, it was just his dad that dialed his number, all the way from Tallahassee, Florida. Three years ago, not long after his second stint with chemo, he had run away with Tate's nurse, Moira. He hadn't been home since, but he called once a week for updates. The phone call was rarely even acknowledged, only when he was in a particularly giving mood or when he thought he could learn to be tolerant. That night, he was just feeling alone.

"Hey." The voice on the other end surprised him. It was Violet.

"Hey." What else could he say? "What's up?"

She hesitated for a moment, and, when the words finally fell from her lips, they sounded unsure. "Listen, I know I said that hanging out would be a bad idea, but I didn't have anything to do tonight, so I looked up your address in the student directory. I'm outside. You don't have to come down. It was a crazy idea, anyway." For a moment, he couldn't think of anything to say. "Sorry…I should just go home."

"No." The word came out in one loud rush. He was still so surprised. "I mean, no, I'll be down in a second. Where are you?"

She was a little embarrassed—no, more than just a little. "Behind the bush on the side of your house, under the balcony…I didn't want to wake anyone up. It's late." He could almost hear her shrugging.

It didn't take long for him to slip into his mother's room—she'd fallen asleep on the couch down stairs hours before. When he opened the door, he saw her, leaned up against the side of the house. As he climbed down the lattice, she came to stand at the bottom, waiting for him, struggling under the weight of the bag that was slung over her body. It had to be nearly one in the morning.

"So what are you doing? Snuck out?"

She wished. "I doubt my parents will notice. My dad went out and my mom is freaking. I guess I didn't want to sit and listen to her cry. Anyway, I thought we could do something maybe."

It was thrilling, to have her want to be with him, for her to choose to be with him. "Like what?"

In all honesty, she didn't have the slightest idea. She hadn't planned ahead, had only thought of getting out of the house for one night. Violet would have to improvise. "We could go down to the beach. It's not too far from here."

Tate pretended to think about, though there was no question in his mind of whether he would agree to follow her or not. She had him wrapped around her little finger, even if she didn't know it. "Yeah, sure." he finally said and started to walk to the street, her following close behind. He wondered what was stuffed into that bag that was so heavy, but he didn't ask. Instead, he offered to carry it.

She wouldn't be so vulnerable, so weak. "I'm fine." Violet replied, her anger flaring again. "I don't need to be babied." He wasn't trying to baby her. "Just because I'm sick—" But he wouldn't let her get away with things so easily this time.

"I would have offered even if you weren't. It looks really heavy and, no offense, but you're kind of small. Petite…" Tate's words were casual. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he said them and she could tell he was sincere, so she was silenced.

Once they had found their way to the shore, things began to flow more naturally. They laughed and talked about things that were funny to them. They told stories, learned about one another and their lives. Tate thought Violet had the most amazing laugh, the most genuine smile. It made him want to amuse her, just so that he could see it. She liked the way he spoke, his voice calm and easy, soothing. He had charisma and it seemed to natural to adjust to his presence, to feel comfortable with him. Tate, Violet determined, was easy to like, and she couldn't help but wonder why he didn't have more friends.

Though, despite all the fun that they were having, eventually, the conversation turned to more serious topics.

Tate began. "What made you decide to do what you say you will? And why did you ask me? I mean, I guess I understand in a way, but isn't there someone you would rather be with? Someone you'd want to spend your last summer with?" He would never see why she had asked him at all. Was it only because of his illness.

"I think I thought you would understand what I am going through…and I wanted to be able to help you while you helped me. I don't want to feel useless. That's the worst of this. I want to have a purpose. And, I guess, if I helped you to enjoy yourself, I'd feel like I was doing something worthwhile."

It made Tate smile to think that she wanted to ease his pain, to help him. She could see that it was hard, she could feel it herself. And, yet, she was not selfish. He couldn't help but think that he _was_. "Why don't we do it then? We can meet every day, all summer long. And then, at the end…" He didn't need to say the rest. She knew.

"We'll help each other." It was an understanding that they could come to, and they each hoped that the other would rise to the occasion. But there was one last loose end to tie up. "Tate?" Violet addressed him. "You have to promise me something first, and I you. This is a delicate situation. If we mess up, we might chicken out. And I don't want that." He nodded, listening. "We have to swear that we won't get attached. We can't be anything else to one another, nothing more than friends…companions…in this…_thing_. Okay?"

His heart sank a little at that, but he could appreciate the reasons behind her request, her conditions. "Okay. I get it."

But she needed to be sure. "Do you swear?"

"I swear."

Then, just to convince herself, she too mumbled, "I swear, too." Because, deep down inside, she knew that Tate was someone that she would be willing to break that promise for.


	5. Changes In the Air

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

"Time to spill…" Tate said, smiling at Violet as they walked down the hallway, side by side. It was the first time he had ever felt happy there, trapped in that godforsaken building. She smiled back, shaking her head.

"No…what are we talking about spilling?"

"What's in the bag, Harman? You carry that thing everywhere and it is quite obviously very heavy. So what do you have in there?"

The smile fell from her face as she hardened her resolve not to tell him a single thing. "None of your business, Langdon." She tried to make the words sound playful, but she knew that she failed miserably. She wasn't good at hiding anger or agitation. In fact, those were the only emotions she didn't seem to be able to keep in check.

He dropped it. "So when do we start?" he questioned, watching her face carefully. The crooked smirk returned as she thought about what they should do first. She had a million different ideas, a million different things that she wanted to do. Violet and Tate both tried not to think of the reasons why they wanted to do them so soon. Things were urgent, and there was no time to hesitate.

"I want to get a tattoo." she laughed, looking down at her scuffed up shoes.

Tate thought about this, formulating a plan in his mind of how he could make this happen. "Alright…what else?"

She thought again. "I want to streak my hair, and I want to spend a night away from home…"

This surprised him. "You've never stayed away from home before? No slumber parties?" His choice of words made her laugh, made her cheeks blush beat red. He loved the way it looked on her, loved it when she looked at him with that spark in her eyes.

"I've been sick since I was three…I never really had any friends to stay with, anyway, even if my parents had been willing to let me go."

It suddenly struck him just how much worse her life had been than his. There really wasn't much in her life that wasn't full of pain. She kept her illness a secret, because she didn't want to be judged, but the world judged her anyway. Tate wanted her to have everything, to be happy. She deserved to have a beautiful life, not one shrouded in guilt and suffering like she had. If anyone deserved to be cured, Tate believed it was Violet Harman.

But she would never be okay, never be healthy or normal.

She could be happy, he thought. If only for a little while.

He decided right then and there that he would give her everything he could, hold her hand in all of the things that she wanted to do. He had very few dreams, but she had so many. There would be no reason to not live them with her for just one last summer.

As they walked into the lunchroom, heads turned to look at them—the two loners laughing, standing shoulder to shoulder, like they had been friends all of their lives. It was rare to see either Tate or Violet socializing with anyone. They didn't speak really and, when they did, their words were brief. Yet, there they were, looking almost normal.

Violet hated the attention and dashed to grab a tray and get in line without a second thought. Tate, on the other hand, enjoyed it. He wanted them all to see, to know that he had been the once to bring her out of her seclusion. He liked the idea of making a splash, of doing the unexpected, of being shocking. He thrived on the notion of being talked about, of being envied. He was an enigma to them all, and he wouldn't have ever had it any other way. It was a selfish sort of fancy, but he saw no need to repress it.

When they took their seats, at a table by themselves, it occurred to each of them that this was the first time they had ever eaten lunch at school with a friend. They had never had anyone to speak to before, never been able to do anything but be silent in that one short hour. This was new territory, but it wasn't bad. They liked it.

"I think I know what we can do about those things." Tate said, grinning mischievously. He could plan it all, give them both the time of their lives before they would be forced to end it all. "Don't worry about anything. I'll come to your house tonight around midnight and we'll go talk somewhere. It's time to take action."

"Where are we going to go talk?" Violet questioned, bringing a forkful of spaghetti to her lips.

He chuckled under his breath, satisfied with himself and his own cleverness. "Don't worry about it. I told you. It's a surprise."

"You're not going to do anything illegal, are you?" In all honesty, though she feigned concern, she couldn't have cared less. In truth, the idea of Tate being a little rebellious excited her. He had seemed to so straight laced, so obedient. Now, she was beginning to see things differently. Whether she was the reason for the change or whether he had always been that way and she simply hadn't noticed, Violet wasn't sure. It really didn't make much of a difference, though, so she put her musings aside and concentrated on the words he spoke in that moment.

"Maybe I am…" he murmured, cocking an eyebrow at her. The reaction that this gesture elicited surprised even Violet herself, but she tried to ignore it.

This was very bad. She had been able to acknowledge the initial attraction between the two of them, how he had made her feel that first night that they had gone out together. But she couldn't let it go where her body told her it wanted to be taken. She had promised. She had sworn. They would only be friends. It was as simple as that.

"Alright, Tate…I guess I'll let you surprise me."


	6. Haunted Houses

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Violet hadn't spoken kindly to her mother or father since the morning she had met Tate. They'd been at odds for so long now and they hadn't bothered to acknowledge her since their last argument. She had shouted at them, told them she never wanted to speak to them again. Just what happened afterwards she didn't remember—she'd been too distressed—but Ben had gone out to the bar and her mother had spent the night in her room, crying. He hadn't come home till late, very drunk and very distressed. That was when she had decided to go visit Tate for the first time.

When Tate thought of his mother, he realized that they hadn't had a reasonable conversation in a long time. When he would talk to her, she always shied away. It was because he reminded her of his father, he assumed. He looked exactly like him. Ultimately, they were a lot alike: Tate and Violet. They shared so much.

Tate came for her around midnight, as he had promised, dressed all in black. His blonde hair gave him away though, lessened the sinister nature of his appearance. He smiled up at her, dimples and all, and Violet couldn't help but think of how childlike he could sometimes be, how juvenile. He was so much fun to be around, so unlike anything that Violet had ever known. The way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he sounded when he said her name—it all amazed her. He seemed so happy, so optimistic, and she never understood how he could. IT was only when she was with him that she ever felt happy, ever felt alive at all.

She let him inside, led him up to her room. She realized that he was the first boy she had ever brought there since she was a little girl and it made her chuckle silently. He asked, but she gave him no answer, insisting that it was nothing. He was in good spirits tonight, more so than usual, and she wondered what he had in store for her that night.

"Too much color…" he mumbled, looking her up and down. "Change, now." She laughed, heading towards her closet. When she pulled off her shirt, revealing a tight undershirt, it didn't escape her attention, the way he eyed her body. So she quickly pulled a black sweater—far too big for her—over her head. He liked the way it looked, making her seem so delicate, so fragile.

"Better?" Violet asked, spinning in a circle. Her smile was dazzling.

"Much. Now let's get going. Chop, chop, come on."

She laughed at him, following him down the stairs and out the front door. "Why are we in such a hurry? Where's the fire?"

Tate liked the way that she said 'we', but he tried not to dwell on it too much. Obviously, it did not mean so much to her as it did to him. "Just shut up and follow

]me."

Violet couldn't ignore the way she tingled with excitement when he told her what to do, when he was pushy. It made her feel safe, oddly, like someone was, for once, taking care of her—not in a physical way, but in an emotional way, a spiritual way, a way that she had never experienced before. It seemed that they walked forever, huddled close because, though the air was warm, the night was so breezy it gave them both chills—neither was sure if it was really the air moving around them or just the thrill of it all. The wind blew her hair around her face and he tucked it behind her ear, not even thinking. Eventually, Tate led them onto an older street, lined with large Victorians, most of which hadn't been occupied for a long time.

"That's the one." he said, smiling at her and grabbing her hand, pulling her more urgently towards the building that he had pointed out. It was tall, with lots of stained glass and high, heavy looking doors.

Violet couldn't help the squeal that escaped from her mouth as he pulled her up onto the porch. It was unlike her, but she had always loved places like this, out of the way and hidden in their own obscurity. They were forgotten, but not dead. In all of their brokenness, they were beautiful. Sometimes, she liked to think that maybe someone could see her that way one day. Now, she knew that she would never have the chance. It took some of the joy out of the situation for her, but she tried to mask the depression creeping up inside.

She followed Tate up to a room on the second story. The whole house was falling apart, but they didn't mind. When the door fell open, Violet's breath was taken away. There were sleeping bags, candles to light the dark corner of the house and, in the very center of the room, something she had always wondered about: it was a wigi board.

Looking around, she couldn't help but throw her arms around Tate, almost knocking him over. "This is so cool!" she exclaimed, still wrapped tightly in his arms. Her usual impulse to keep her distance had almost completely vanished and he couldn't have been any happier in that moment. "I love it!"

"I thought you would. This place is supposed to be haunted." He laughed mischievously, pulling her to sit beside him on the floor. He put his hands on the board, smirking at her as she did the same.

They waited and waited, but nothing happened. After a while, they gave up. "I knew it was a load of crap." Violet declared, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. Tate followed suit, taking his place beside her. He liked it there, even if he didn't belong, even if she didn't want him the way he wanted her. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

Tate paused, thinking about it. "Do you really think there isn't? You know, they always say that restless spirits, the ones that die in violent ways, can't leave earth. They haunt. At least, that's what I've always been told." She snorted, raising her hand to examine it in the candle light, the scars there. "Especially suicides…" he added, making her frown.

"Well, maybe we'll end up wondering the world forever, but I'll take my chances." It wasn't a joke. She was entirely serious. Anything would be better than living with what she did, the pain that this thing caused her. Tate reached up himself, took her hand and pulled it to his chest, desperate to comfort her qualms. He had always been afraid of death, of nothingness. It didn't make sense to him, and so he had always been convinced in a hereafter. There just had to be one, for good people anyway.

The gesture made her skin crawl, not because she didn't like it either, but because she did. She liked it too much, and she was afraid of what that might mean. But Violet resolved not to withdraw her hand, rather to let it rest there in his capable grasp. She would let him care for her, let him comfort her, even love her—just for the moment. What could it hurt?

"Does it scare you?" he finally asked, turning to look at her face, look deep into her light brown eyes, the source of all the warmth in the room that wrapped itself around him. "Dying, I mean."

She thought for a moment before answering his question. "Yes, to a point. But then I think of all the reasons that I can't stay here, of all the pain that living means for me. If I were…well…I don't think I would be able to contemplate any of the things that I do now, with these circumstances that I live under. There wouldn't be enough time, and I would fight for as long as I could, if I could die an old woman, if I could live a full life. But I can't, and I've had to accept that. I don't have a choice. I never did have one, not once in my whole entire life."

And Tate knew just how she felt. "You know, I think you deserve it…more than I do. If you had the time, I bet you would do something amazing with it. I'd probably just screw it up. I always do, with everything."

For the first time, Violet saw clearly who Tate Langdon was. He was so damaged, so beaten, and yet so filled with perseverance. She admired this in him, wished that she could mimic the characteristic. Her heart thumped louder as she stared into his eyes, his deep, dark eyes, wishing that she could stay there forever. They were pools of black, set into such an angelic face—the most ironic sort of pairing that she could imagine. It was mesmerizing.

"Do you want to try it one more time?" he asked her, his eyes drifting towards the wigi board once more.

"Nah…nothing's going to happen."

But he looked at her pleadingly, smiling that charming, boy-like smile once more, and she found her resolve quickly crumbling. "Just one more time? Please, Vi, I promise we don't have to do it again."

So, she gave in. Once more, they placed there finger on it, and nothing happened. They sat there in the warm light, perfectly still and silent. And then, Tate had an idea, acting on impulse that he was almost completely certain would get him nowhere.

First, a K. Then an I, S, S, M. She was confused at first, then saw what it meant as the final letter fell into place. E. Kiss me.

She didn't know what she should do as she found him leaning into her, gazing into her eyes with a penetrating stare that made her heart melt. His breath fell across her face, his scent, everything about him—it all made her so exhilarated, yet, at the same time, filled her to the brim with confusion. What she wanted and what she knew was the right thing to do battled against one another in her mind, her heart. But as his lips touched hers, so softly that it gave her chills, she knew that there was no choice to make. There never had been a choice, like everything else in her life.

In that same moment, Tate knew: he had been born to love Violet Harman.


	7. Ditching

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

She laid there in his arms for the longest time, all night, as he kissed her—lips, forehead, even her hands, especially in the places where she was scarred. The fact that she allowed him to do this was amazing to him. He had thought she would tell him to stop, to stay away from her, yet she embraced it, was inclined to it even. She hummed in satisfaction as he held her to him, stroking up and down her arms and smiling like the fool that he was.

"It's getting late." Violet pointed out. It was almost morning. "Actually, it's getting early. We should head back. I don't want my mom to wake up and find an empty bed. And we have school too. It's finally our last day."

It occurred to him that the night was indeed over and he hated to let that happen. He couldn't. "If it's the last day, what's the point of going?" he questioned and she sighed, wriggling away from his embrace. "Seriously, Vi, haven't you ever skipped school before?"

She thought about it, about all of the days that she hadn't wanted to get out of bed, all of the days that she had done so anyhow. She had always put on a brave face, gotten dressed, walked the halls like the zombie that she was. She hated it, but she went anyway. "No, I haven't. And I don't think I should today." It was a losing argument. Tate had such a good point and she didn't feel like fighting with him.

"Come on, Violet. No one will even notice we're gone. We can call in sick. It'll be fun, and let's just say it's on my list of things to do: skip the last day of my senior year." Violet looked at him with wide eyes, surprised at his words.

"You're a senior? How old are you?" She'd guessed he was a junior, just a little bit older than her, but she would have never though that there was that big of a gap between them. This was only her second year of high school.

"I'm seventeen. I thought you knew that." She decided not to say anything more, because she didn't want to seem stupid. "What? Are you afraid that we might get in trouble?"

And that was all he needed to say. He knew it, and so did she. Violet could never turn down a dare, could never be called a chicken. She was brave, after all, immune to all forms of fear. This, breaking the rules, would be nothing. "Fine. I'm gonna go home and change, take a shower. I'll meet you back here at noon and we can figure out what to do today, okay?"

He agreed readily, and soon found himself back in his room, as though the entire night had never happened. He missed her already, because, to him, it all felt like a dream. Never in his life had he ever felt happy, or content, or even satisfied with the world around him. Tate had never felt a part of it, and, in a way, he never had truly joined in. The way he saw everything was different, too different for the liking of some people—most of his peers.

As he walked down the stairs, he caught sight of him mother, crying in the study, her mascara running down her cheeks. He had been her last child left; the other two had died already: Addie and Beau. They'd been troubled, and she'd expected it, though Constance had cried her eyes out for days, gone on a vicious rampage planning their funerals. Yet, he had never seen the woman so distraught, because he was her perfect son, her beautiful son with a future that they both knew he would never be able to live up to. He was dying and, to Constance, he might as well have already been dead. Tate could feel this in her, the frustration he caused. But he couldn't bring himself to feel bad, not really. She was a monster in her own way, too. For, though she was lovely and polite on the outside, he had always lived with what she really was. Sometimes, he thought she drove him mad.

"Constance." He spoke, his voice so hard that it was frightening, to see how cold he had become in comparison to just a short time before. "Don't cry. Not over me. You knew it would come to this, just the same as the others." It made him angry that she favored him, that she always put him first just because he was more aesthetically pleasing. It was all she cared about. But Addie had always been so much sweeter than Tate, he knew, and Beau had never had the chance to be anything but an abomination. Old Mrs. Langdon had made sure of that.

She continued to weep, harder than she had before, but he didn't understand why. It was nothing for him, to see this fate, far enough off in the future to sustain him. But he had Violet, and so, perhaps, it was that companionship that kept him from breaking down in the same way. Constance had no one. She had chased everyone off long ago—everyone, including his father whom he had no more respect for. He had left him with her, left him to die alone with her. How much worse could it be?

He walked away silently, turning to thoughts of Violet, his memories of her warms hand pressed against his chest, the soft skin of her lips against his own. He recalled the way she had pulled on his hair as he kissed her, there in the haunted house, high up in the most secluded bedroom, surrounded by ruins of grandeur architecture and candles that had long before begun to melt into the rough, unfinished, hardwood of the floors. There had been nothing that was not perfect, nothing that he did not deem flawless in those moments: long, treasured moments that had lasted through the whole night, until the break of dawn when the world had intruded on their little paradise. And then, back to the suffering of it they had both returned, comforted only by the recollections of the hours past and the knowledge that they would soon return to them.

Violet didn't seek out her parents when she got home. She snuck upstairs, afraid that they might see her, and hopped into the shower quickly, stealthily. The water was warm, but there was no time to linger there. She had things to do, places to be, people to see—people, or rather a person, that she actually wanted to see. This was new to her and it made her hurry up her actions, made her rush to wash the soap from her hair.

In the meantime, Tate listened to the sound of Constance shouting into the phone. He couldn't make out what was being said on the other line, but the sound of her angry, blood thirsty voice made him want to cower away, into the safety of the farthest corner of the house, high in the attic.

"That's a horrible thing for them to say…and how dare you ask me such an insensitive, insolent question! It's mass hysteria, you bastard! I don't care if you're the _Queen of England_ and I don't care what your job is! Now, if you ever dare to call this house again, I swear you will wish you had never been born! Do we understand each other, Miss Hayes?"

Tate didn't intend to stick around to find out what else him mother had to say to whoever was on the other end of the phone. He slipped out the front door, slamming it behind him. He could hear his mother screaming from inside the house, but he didn't listen, didn't allow the words to reach him. He felt miserable, and he needed to get away.

Violet and Tate met in front of the house, as they had promised, around noon. The sun was high in the sky and the lighting brought a new appearance to the old, abandoned houses that lined the streets. They were all so dilapidated, but much less sinister. The tall grass and over grown weed and busted white picket fences told a story, a story that Violet would have loved to know.

"So, I think I know what we're going to do today." she announced, looking up at his face and marveling, secretly, at how he looked like a cherub in the bright light of summer. His blonde curls, his smile—the only thing that didn't match were his eyes, pools of onyx set in a beautifully celestial face.

"And what is that?" he questioned in response, his hands finding the sider of her face as he leaned in to kiss her. The contact made it hard for either of them to think but, Violet, being the level headed girl that she was, managed to pry herself away.

"I want to find out more about our house. They say it's haunted, but I want to know if there's any truth behind it. I want a story."

Tate loved the way she said 'our house', the way she had claimed it for just the two of them. And it was indeed theirs. It would be there home for always, somewhere deep in their hearts. In Tate's mind, it was where their relationship had begun. In Violet's, it was where she wanted to end it all.


	8. Ink and Tears

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

They sat in the library, reading through old papers, old records. It had been hard to find, but they had eventually stumbled across the old records, buried deep in the farthest corner of the archives. Tate and Violet found themselves a spot far from being disturbed, all alone. It was the way they liked it: secluded, lonely, with room for just the two of them.

They started flipping through the pages, seeing the names of all the previous owners. The home had seen its share of sorrow and violence. The original owners and builders had died there, along with their infant child in the early 1900s. The woman had murdered her husband, the current doctor to the stars, after their baby's death and then had committed suicide. Some said she went mad, while others argued that Charles Montgomery had been a monster. The truth, neither of them could tell.

There had been a few owners after that, but the house had fallen into ruin by the turn of the century. No one had lived in it for more than a decade. It was amazing to think that they had been the first to sleep there in so long. Violet asked Tate how he had gotten inside. He told her he'd picked the lock on the front door.

"It was easy." he insisted. "It's always easy…if you know what you're going."

It impressed her, made her admire him, for the things that he had knowledge of—all of the right things too. He'd been thinking of her list, as well, she knew, and the few things that she had told him she wanted to accomplish that summer. He had told her that he would make them happen. Violet wondered if he really could, or if he only wanted to please her in the moment. Boys tended to lie to get what they wanted; they always had, particularly to Violet. After all, she was no catch. But, when she looked into his eyes, Tate always seemed so genuine, so unpretentious. She realized, in that moment, how trusting she was of that boy, how irrevocably fond of him she was. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit that he could, perhaps, do anything and she would forgive him—within reason, of course.

"I know where you can go to get your tattoo." Tate announced suddenly. She smiled in response, listened. "I know a guy…or a guy I know knows a guy. Fine, I don't really know him. But I heard someone talking about where they got it done, down town at this building on 32nd. They said it's pretty cheap, and you won't need an ID."

Violet nodded, mulling over the idea. She had money. It was only a matter of guts, of whether she could really do it or not. But she was no chicken, so she agreed.

They were to their destination by five, and she had made her choice not long after. He had decided to do it with her, and so she had suggested that they match, as a reminder of their promise, this last bit of time that they would share together. It was a black rose—a symbol of love, had it been red. But their love, their companionship, was bound by death, by their nearness to the end. It only seemed right. When all was done and they had returned to their hiding place in the old house, they placed their wrists side by side, comparing the two drawing and leaning into each other tiredly.

"Do you think they'll notice them?" Violet asked, intertwining her fingers with his, pressing their roses together. She liked the way they connected, not that she would ever say it out loud. He was there with her for the moment; that was all that mattered. "Do you think they'll make the connection, I mean…when it's all over?"

She thought about it, laying her head down on his shoulder. She was so tired. She could feel the exhaustion slipping through her like it should. Under the circumstances, she expected it to. "I don't know." She finally said, staring at any random point on the wall across from them. His eyes were trained on her, his head cocked uncomfortably to the side so that he would be able to see her face.

"I hope they do." He was trying to figure out how he should word what he wanted to say, how it could be said so that it wouldn't scare her away. "I want them all to know that we were…together. Whatever we are. But I guess they'll find our bodies that way, won't they?" Violet nodded. She herself didn't know what else to say, how to reply to his unspoken question. Then, he finally found the courage to say it. "What are we, Violet? I need to know."

"I don't know, Tate. It's complicated."

But he didn't think it was. Nothing should have been complex then, and nothing should have troubled her. She should have been ready and willing to throw caution to the wind. After all, had they not promised to live their lives to the fullest in those last months?

"I need to know, Vi. Or else, I can't do this." He couldn't believe he was saying it, but Tate found it impossible to stop himself from doing just that. He didn't want to lose her, was sure he would die of heartbreak if he did, but he wanted her to be his—to belong to him and only him. She was amazing, yet he could never just be her friend, not then. He could never be anything to her except what he wanted to be, and he wanted to be her lover. She wanted her to adore him, to worship the ground he walked on. He wanted her to see him the way that he saw her, love him the way he loved her.

Violet felt so much weight on her shoulders, all in one moment that seemed heavier than most. She didn't want to lose Tate either, but she wasn't prepared to say the words. There was still this hesitation within her, this fear of what might happen if she allowed herself to give him everything that she wanted to give him. She would be hurt, in the end. It would make it harder to say goodbye. So, she did the exact thing that she knew would break her heart anyway.

"I can't, Tate. I'm sorry." And she left, leaving behind another broken heart which yearned for hers just as much as anyone's heart had ever yearned for anything.


	9. Choices of An Ending

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

It was dark, almost midnight, but Violet couldn't go home. She didn't want to, couldn't bring herself to turn down her street. If she did, it would all be over—officially, and forever. Tate and her would never speak again, she knew. That would be the end. And so, she wondered around the town, drifting from driveway to driveway, wondering just what she would do next. Somehow, she found herself back in front of the old house where they had spent the night. Tate had been gone for a long time, by then, and Violet felt safe inside of it, as though the rest of the world just faded away. Once the door had slammed shut behind her, she was immediately incased in its mystery, its obscurity. She was again secure, away from reality and the pains of the truth in which she was forced to live for the moment.

She wondered through, down the halls and up the stairs, to the room at the back corner of the house where they had hidden together, where she and Tate had laid side by side the whole night, wrapped in each other's arms because they craved the warmth, the life, the companionship. The way he made her feel was unique, to say the least. It was as though he loved her, with no conditions or consequences. But that could never be true, could it? That sort of love did not exist, not for people like her anyway. Violet was not beautiful. She was nothing special; all this she knew. Above all, she was incapable of giving her life to anyone, for it was not hers to give. It was simply loaned to her, for however long she could keep it for. Tate knew this, and he empathized. Under those circumstances, what could they ever have together?

The place was deathly silent as Violet curled up on the ancient, scuffed floor, curling into a ball and crying, really crying, for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Sobs racked her body, but she couldn't seem to stop them as she usually did. They were forceful, impervious to all of her typical methods of mood control. This eventually drove her to give up, to let the sorrow take her where it would, and she was almost grateful. Sound and sight faded away, along with conscious mind, as she slipped into a very dark but clear place where all that existed were her own problems, the obstacles between her and happiness—the only form of happiness that had ever been known to her.

A voice broke the silence within her, and she resurfaced, only to see the face of a young woman with golden hair and kind blue eyes. She was pretty, and Violet instantly envied her, though envy was not one of Violet's common practices. "Don't cry, dear. There's no use wasting pointless tears…and over what? Death?" She knew. Violet's mouth dropped open as she stared up at the lady, clothed in a long, elegant silk negligee. She was of a different place, a different time, a different realm altogether. "I saw that boy of yours here earlier. He cried too, after you left. But I suppose young love is that way. Neither of you can be very old, can you? Sixteen, perhaps? I was fourteen when I met Charles."

The strange woman crossed the room, sat delicately upon a sofa that had not been there just a moment before, and beckoned Violet to follow. She took a cigarette from the shelves that lined the wall behind her, along with a box of matches, and lit one.

"What's your name, miss?" she queried, smiling and offering a cigarette to Violet. She took it, stared intently at the face before her. It was unreal. "Violet…Violet Harman…"

"I'm Nora. And that's a lovely name, by the way. Had I had a little girl, I might have liked that very much. But never mind that, is it for this boy that you cry, or is it what I had originally thought?" Nora knew that she was dying, it was clear. But could she possibly know all about Tate too? About their night in the house? IT became evident to Violet that the woman she was seeing must be Nora Montgomery, the doctor's wife. She'd shot her husband in that very house, perhaps in that very room.

But, as long as she was crazy, she thought she had best enjoy the company. "I think, more than anything, it's Tate. I don't know what to do with him. I do care about him, but it's hard…it's hard to tell him that I want to be with him."

Nora nodded her head, looking into the distance. She was so graceful, so refined, and it made Violet feel like a klutz. "When you have forever, things certainly do look differently though, don't they? I'll spend an eternity here, with my dead husband, killed by my own hand. And, while I did believe that I hated him at the time, I have grown to love him again. Charles is the one who resents me. I would try to help you dear, but what do I know about love? Look at me. I destroyed everything. Yet I can say one thing. That boy, Tate, whatever his name is…he does love you. I've never seen a man cry like that before in my life, not even when we lost the baby. And you have all the time in the world to make your choice…but, keep in mind what the rest of eternity would look like without him, the rest of your forever."

She didn't make much sense, but she did provide Violet with some clarity. The next few months had become Violet's forever, so what would they look like without Tate in them? She thought about it and realized just how horribly she had messed things up. And suddenly, there would never be enough speed with which she could find him.

She thanked the woman, Nora Montgomery, and then ran down the stairs, out of the house, down the street. She kept running, farther and farther. Violet had never been athletic, but there was too much to be said and not nearly enough time to say it all. When she finally found herself in front of Tate's home, she rushed to the balcony where she had hid in the bush that first night. Her fingers dialed his number shakily, hurriedly. It rang and rang and rang, but there was no answer. She went to the window that she thought looked into his bedroom and tossed pebbles at the glass before, finally, she received a response.

Tate had been lying on his bed, listening to music too loudly to hear the telephone ringing. He'd been thinking about her, about how she obviously did not feel the way that he felt, about how he didn't care. He would love her anyway, even if she grew to hate him, even if they died without another word. The pause between songs had only lasted a second, just long enough to hear something hitting against his window. When he looked out, he saw her, breathing hard, her hair knotted and blown by the wind. The sight made him want to smile, but recollections of the evening stopped the impulse dead in its tracks. To think that those lips had spoken the words that had condemned him to hell seemed impossible, unacceptable.

He opened the window, just as she asked him if she would let her inside. So he did. He unlocked the front door and snuck her up the staircase, pulled her into his room and then locked the door. Constance had been asleep for hours already, but he did this as both a precaution and a habit.

"I'm sorry, Tate." She said, a single tear streaming down her face. He moved to wipe it away, but she kept on talking. "I do want you, for as long as I can have you. I'm just scared. I don't want to lose everything. I don't want to leave, but I don't have a choice." Her words were silenced by his lips as he kissed her fiercely, unable to move past the fact that she did, in fact, want him. Even if her feelings were not as strong as his, he could take it. As long as she was by his side, until the very end.

When he told her the absolute truth, he didn't hope for a response, didn't expect one. He only wanted her to know everything, to know him inside and out. "I love you, Violet. I love you more than anything…anyone. You don't have to love me back. I just…_I love you_." He smiled, looking intently at her face as she took in all that had just happened between them.

She didn't respond with words. It wasn't Violet's style. Instead, she pressed herself tightly against Tate's body and moved her lips against his. She had a mission, and she wouldn't be stopped. Her hands pulled violently at the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head. She was rough in her motions, but he wouldn't stop her. They backed up to the bed and he laid her down there, pulling at her clothing the way she had pulled at his. They wanted nothing between them, nothing to separate their skin from touching—every crevice, every inch of flesh. To have her touch him, to be as close to her as he could, was all he really wanted. Tate wanted to be one with her, in every way.

And, that night, she would give that to him. That night, unreserved and unafraid, she would give him everything.


	10. Sleuth

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

She heard them in the early morning hours through the back wall of her bedroom, cooing in each other's ears and giggling like two school girls. Around six, once she was sure that Tate and his guest had fallen asleep, Constance took the key from the secretary in the hall and unlocked his door. She had never told him about that key; she never could. As she crept into the room, she tried to imagine the girl that would lay beside her son. Surely, she would be good looking, deserving of a night with her boy. He had always been her golden child, yet she had this irking feeling that, true to form, he would disappoint. He almost liked to do that to her, to aim low just to spite his mother.

When she rounded the corner into the room, she found exactly what she had been expecting. There she was, curled up into his side, her head on his chest, her long brown hair slayed over his skin. Constance thought she was average, at best, very small and very thin: her figure was certainly nothing to be marveled at. And, on her wrist, was a poorly done tattoo of a black rose. Constance scoffed, seeing that, again, he had done just exactly what she would have hated for him to do. He had been so pure, so flawless, and then he had ruined it all. This only further cheapened his legacy in her mind, further obstructed the vision of what she had always hoped and dreamed and pushed for him to become.

A bag was thrown against the wall, beside a heap of the girl's clothes. Constance went there immediately, searching for some sort of evidence as to who she was. The satchel was full to the brim and very heavy, and, as she tore through its contents, she was only further perplexed by what had attracted her dearest son to the young girl in the first place—clothing, a few books of the more sinister nature, horror genre, a very small amount of money, bottles of pain medication, several of which were completely empty. The prescriptions were made out to Vivien Harmon, Carl Richmond, a boy whose mother Constance happened to be acquainted with. There were other names, but she didn't bother to read them. The cocktail of pills was deadly enough without the small shot bottle of vodka in the bottom on the bag. It was only half full.

As she dug deeper, she found a pocket knife, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a bus ticket from there to the down town section of Los Angeles. Shoved into one of the pockets, Constance stumbled across a journal. As she read the words, she understood. She decided it was best for her to keep it.

Constance stuck back out of the room, locked the door behind her, moved silently down the stairs and out of the house, but only after placing her finding in a safe place in the very back of her cosmetics drawer. Tate had done what he always did. He'd destroyed everything—her life and his. And, likewise, that little trollop that lay beside him in his bed had destroyed her own. Perhaps, she might have said that they deserved each other. But no one deserved her son, particularly not Violet Harmon.

Tate woke up a few hours later to the sun shining in his window. When he looked beside him, there was Violet, positioned comfortably in his arms, her eyes batting with the newness of the morning. Her skin was entirely bare, illuminated by the natural glow, and Tate couldn't resist the urge to run his fingers up and down her side, making her shiver. She smiled up at him, all the recollections of the previous night flooding back. She hadn't meant to do it, hadn't planned it at all. It had just happened. But Violet was glad that it had, glad that she had followed her instincts—almost as glad as Tate was, but he was ecstatic.

"Morning." He said, grinning like she'd never seem him grin before. It was such a natural expression. It complimented his face in a way that amazed her, as though he were meant to do it, to flash her crooked smirks, to beam at her very presence. She didn't doubt that he had told her the truth, that he truly did love her. She thought that she might love him too, but how could she ever be sure? She had never been in love before. And Violet wondered what that would feel like. That moment certainly seemed like a good place to search for the answer.

"Hey." It was a broken mumble, but it fit. She couldn't help how her lips turned up at the corners, how she wanted to get closer to him, to be with him the way she had been just hours before all over again. It had been more than she had expected, more than she had ever hoped it could be. So why would she ever want to surrender that? The idea of giving it up seemed impossible. "What are you thinking? About…last night, I mean." She couldn't decide what to think, what to expect from him. Suddenly, Violet was overcome with fears, of whether she had done the right thing, whether Tate had enjoyed it all as much as her. She wondered if he would still want to be with her now, or if he had already gotten what he had been yearning for all along.

Tate felt his cheeks flush as he thought about it. To tell her seemed too difficult, just the same as telling him that she loved him had been too difficult. She had showed him, and now he wanted to show her. Tenderly, he kissed her lips, almost suffering from the bittersweet nature of the kiss. She was everything to him now, all that he had or would ever have. She was eternal, in his eyes at least. "I love you, Violet." He told her, not because he wanted to know if she reciprocated the feelings, but because he wanted to say it, because it felt right.

Then, Violet, as always, surprised him. "I love you." And there was no turning back from there. They were spinning out of control, but they liked the way it felt. Until the very last second, they would enjoy the ride. Until their hearts stopped beating.


	11. The Runaways

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

The world had begun to look different somehow, smaller than it ever had. Violet had always thought that, if she ever recovered from her disease, she would want to travel, to run away from that place where she had spent the entirety of her life thus far. Yet, faced with death and the opportunity to do just exactly what she wanted, die just exactly where she wanted, she found that she wouldn't rather be anywhere else when the time came. That place, that town, had become the breeding ground for her life—whatever it was, whatever it would be. How could she ever leave? She felt a bond that she couldn't seem to break. It even frightened her, but she knew she would never be able to say goodbye.

Violet was sure it was because of Tate. Because he had changed her so completely. He had given her things that she had needed, but not always realized that she wanted. They were necessities to her now, things that she could not live without. As she walked towards home, she knew that she could not leave him, even if the prospects of loving him terrified her. She had never loved anyone before, never allowed anybody to know what loving her would feel like. Letting him touch her that way, speak to her with sweet words that she had never dreamt of hearing whispered playfully in her eat, seemed incomprehensibly unnatural. And yet she thrived on it.

Recalling the night before, Violet surmised a few things about Tate, as well, as a man—on a purely instinctual level. He had always seemed to be so gentle to her, so delicate. He had laid hands on her as though she were the most fragile thing in the world to him. But, that previous night, everything had changed. And what Violet found was that Tate Langdon was not soft or gentle at all. She had assumed that their first time, should it ever come to be, would be slow. But Tate had wasted to time in ripping off her clothes, and he certainly hadn't taken it easy on her. She liked that he didn't though. It had been amazing, anything but sweet. When it came to sex, Violet had determined that he was rough, revealing a darker side to his nature. She couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Likewise, Tate was sure that she had enjoyed herself too. She'd been quite unreserved about the entire thing. He loved that she told him how to move, what she liked. It made his job easier, and it also made him feel more confident that he was doing what he should. When they'd spoken afterwards, long into the hours of the early morning, she had said that she was sure it wasn't his first time. Violet didn't see how it could be. Tate was good looking and attractive and funny—even charming—so how could he have come to be seventeen and had no experience at all? She didn't see it. He had assured her that her assumptions were false. He'd been just as nervous as his lover. Because he'd always been a loner and, to be completely honest, no girl had ever peaked his interest in quite the same way. Violet was different. She inspired him in a way that was necessary, in a way that made him want all of those things so much more. She wasn't obvious about it, wasn't obviously sexy or interested in him in the very least. And it was just that; she made him wonder, made him guess at what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she wanted and what she didn't. She told him just exactly like it was and he could appreciate that, but she never ever tried to trick him into being with her. Violet Harmon was who she was, and she wouldn't change, not even for Tate.

But he knew that he would never ask her to.

He sat in his bed, thinking these things over, just as she sat in hers, doing the same. Each of them could hear their mothers, chatting away on the phone to each other, though neither of them could have known who was on the other line. There were, as always, things that they were no inclined to know about, information that had somehow evaded them. And there was no way for them to know either, no way for anyone to tell them because nobody would. They didn't need to be told.

Constance was a brash woman, a crude and cruel woman and Vivien was simply sad. She didn't have time to be spiteful or mean or to bother with the silly trivialities that Ms. Langdon would consume her days with. She was more concerned about where Mr. Harmon was, who he was with, what he was doing. She could never know in those days and he would never tell her. In the past month, things had only gotten worse. Violet could distinctly hear the words of her mother's woe's through the floor of the bedroom, echoing through the kitchen like a megaphone.

"And all of this with Violet…it's just been too much. I wish it would go away. I wish it would disappear."

This made her wonder if it wouldn't be best. She had thought about it many times before. It was the reason she kept so much supplies in her satchel. Yes, it would be horrible to leave that Los Angeles suburb, the place where her whole being had begun, the place where she had met the love of her life, the only love she would ever have, the place where Tate would be left behind. But wouldn't it be better for her parents, for Vivien and Ben? If they never were to know what had become of her, if she lived for three months more or four? She could die in peace, away from the possibilities of who she could hurt. They would be used to her absence then, once she had reached the point where she could do the deed. They would be freer, and, maybe, just maybe, they could learn to be happy without her troubles to haunt them. They could move on without the weight of her tragedy. Violet thought about this, about whether or not she could really leave, run away and never look back. She liked the idea, to a certain point, though she had no real desire to say goodbye. It was in the best interest of those who cared about her, those who she would leave behind.

But she would not leave Tate behind. He would only follow not long after she herself had passed. He was dying too, Violet reminded herself. And so she picked up her bag, threw it over her shoulder, and ducked through her bedroom window.


	12. Plans

**Author's Note: Again, I am so thankful for all of the people who read my stories. This has all been so much fun and I really enjoy writing for Fan Fiction. I'm ecstatic that people would care to read and especially thrilled that they would bother to review. Reviews seriously make my day! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.**

When Violet had told Tate to meet her at their house, he'd had absolutely no idea what she had up her sleeve. They had planned to meet down town that evening, but she had called him not long after two in the afternoon and asked him to come out and see her. She'd said it was urgent, and Tate was beginning to worry.

When he found her, in their room, tucked away in the corner, he was surprised by the expression on her face. She was beautiful as ever, clad in her usual apparel, her high tops only laced up half way, but her countenance was stormy and conflicted. He'd seen it before, of course, when she had left him the first time, and something in his stomach braced for the impact of whatever she planned to say. It was terrifying, to see that face again—so sullen and confused, so tortured and haunted. He wanted to smooth away the lines, kiss away her frown. But he knew that that wouldn't be the right thing to do. Instead, he sat down beside her, looked straight into her eyes, and prepared to hear what she had to tell him.

Her bag was fuller than usual, he noticed as she opened her mouth to speak, her soft, pink lips quivering as the words formed awkwardly. "I need to leave town." Violet said, looking down at her hands after having conveyed her sincerity with her big brown eyes. He was a fool for them, but he hated the way they looked in that moment. It took his breath away, and not in the way that he enjoyed.

"Why?" Tate stuttered, stumbled over that single, simple syllable.

With a sigh, it all came rushing out. "I can't do what I want to do here. I can't put them through it—my parents, I mean. If they never know, if they can't find me…it'll be better that way." Then she told him what she had sworn she wouldn't tell a soul, what she had known since she'd listened in on her mother's conversation the week she'd first spoken to Tate. "Vivien is pregnant, Tate. I don't want her to have to face my deterioration…I don't want her to have to clean up the mess either." He knew what she meant. "She deserves to put this behind her. I won't stop my mother from being happy, not when she had the new baby. By the time he's born, she'll have grieved enough. She'll be able to move on. Maybe she'll even find a way to stay with my father, to work things out…I don't know. But I'm just another problem, Tate—another problem they _don't need_."

In a way, it hurt him to hear her speak the words, as though she were some abomination, some expendable inconvenience to be disposed of. Violet wanted to take herself out of the picture in order to simplify her loved one's worlds. But how could her disappearance, her non-existence, ever better anyone's world. To him, she was everything. How could she ever be a burden? He didn't believe that she could. And, if Vivien and Ben really did feel that way about their daughter, about the girl that he loved, the girl he would die for, then he would hate them to the end of time. They wouldn't deserve happiness, not in Tate's eyes anyway.

"Why do you think you should leave? It'll be over soon regardless. We could just stay here. We could do it right here."

His desperate pleas only angered her, made her hurt more. It was like rubbing salt into open wounds. "I don't want them to find my body, Tate." The words were filled with venom, a threat. She was serious, and there was nothing he could do to change her mind then, he knew. So what did she want him to do?

"You're leaving me here, then? Is that it? That's the end?" Now, it was Tate's turn to be angry. He was more than angry, in fact; he was furious.

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Violet? Explain to me what exactly is going on in that head of yours. Because it's looking pretty grim out here." If he lost her, he would have nothing. There wouldn't be a single thing left in the world for him. He wanted to die right then and there, thinking of the pain of what it would be to watch Violet leave, to know that he would never see her again, never hear the sound of her voice. It was agony.

"I want you to leave with me, Tate. There's nothing to keep us here now. None of it matters." She was on a mission. This was what it came down to. "Run away with me." The request was softly spoken, gentle, a convincing line of thought that drew him in, quelled his fury. He could never be made at Violet for very long anyhow.

"And where will we go?" It was a valid question.

"Does it matter? We can go wherever we want, whenever we want. We'll be like ghosts, drifters; no one will be able to track us, know who we are. We'll be free, like birds." The way she described it seemed so beautiful. It seemed impossible for him to say no to it, to those words, that face, the sound of her pleading with him to come away with her. She wanted for them to escape, to spend their last bit of time, together, independent, as happy as they could possibly make themselves.

Tate thought. He wouldn't have to see Constance grieve over her disappointment in him. He wouldn't have to see the expression on her face when she saw him walking out the door to go meet Violet. He wouldn't have to live with the reminders of everything he could have been, everything he was supposed to have been. He could simply be what he was. The idea was delectable, irresistible. For the first time in his life, he could live in peace. Tate could not be judged, because no one would know him, and he would have the one thing that mattered to him by his side until the very end.

"Alright." he finally told her, taking her small hands in his and kissing them tenderly. "What time do we leave?"

And with a brilliant smile, Violet began to propose plans of action. This would be their beginning—the beginning of their perfect ending, their perfect tragedy.


	13. Fly, Fly Away

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

The night was dark as they crept through the shadows, making their way slowly to the edge of town, to the bus stop where they planned to buy two one way tickets to the first available destination—far away and obscure enough that no one would think to look for them there. Tate had stolen some money from his mother's purse, and Violet have taken some cash from her father's wallet. They hoped they would have enough to make it through the summer, but it wasn't much. This wouldn't be easy, they both knew that.

It began to rain when the two found themselves on the corner where they were to wait. She shivered, and she wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his side and rubbing his hands up and down her arms. It was warm outside, but the water made Violet cold. She was surprised that she couldn't feel the effects of her disease in this, that her head didn't pound. She would have cried if she hadn't been so sure that she was doing the right thing, if Tate hadn't been there, right by her side. He was everything, and he was willing to follow her anywhere, take care of her, keep her safe and happy. They wouldn't last forever, but he would give his last days to her, and, before that moment, she hadn't really thought of what a commitment that was, how much he was willing to surrender to her. He had said goodbye to his mother forever, all because she had asked him to, because he didn't want to lose her. Somehow, it was difficult to believe that she could be of so much importance in his life—or in anyone's life for that matter.

The bus pulled to the curb, leaving a trail of splashing water in its wake. They bought their tickets, slinked to the very back. She laid her head on his chest, beginning to feel the first signs of fear, of regret and guilt. She had hoped that she would be able to avoid it for a while, that she would be able to convince herself that it didn't matter. But, when Violet thought of her mother, her father, she just wanted to go back, to never die, to stay with them forever. They had lives to live, and she wanted so badly to be a part of that. She wanted to meet her baby brother, to see him grow up, to see her parents happy again. Yet none of that mattered. Because she knew that she would never be able to have any of that. She wouldn't live to see the end of the season; she couldn't.

"Don't cry, Violet." Tate told her, wiping a tear that she hadn't noticed had fallen from her eye, blazing a trail down the pallid skin of her cheek. "I know how you feel. But everything is going to be okay. We're together, aren't we?" He made it all sound so simple. Somewhere along the way, Violet had gotten into the habit of devising plans and then needing reassurance, comfort, in order to follow through with them. Tate gave her that, always, even when he appeared to be the weaker one, even when he showed so much more fear.

She nodded sadly, granting him a half smile as she looked up into his dark eyes. It hadn't struck her until that moment just how much taller than her he was, how much stronger. She liked the feeling of being in his arms, of feeling safe. It was something that she had missed for such a long time—the feeling of being embraced, having someone more powerful than herself to bare her burden for just a little while, to share it with her at the very least.

Then, she wondered. "Tate…" It was a slow beginning as she built up her nerve to ask. This was not her. Violet Harmon was never vulnerable, never fragile. She was supposed to be strong. But she needed to know, needed to be sure, even if it didn't make a difference to their lives that summer. "If we weren't sick…if we had our whole lives ahead of us…would you still be here with me?"

To him, it seemed like a silly question. The fact that they didn't have forever only further solidified everything that he already felt for her—feelings stronger than any he had ever had, of anger or grief or joy. "Of course I would be. I'll always be here, Vi. When I'm gone…when _we're_ gone…" He put heavy emphasis on the word. "I will still be here, in this place with you, for the rest of eternity. I don't know where else I would go. You're the best place I could ever imagine being."

His smile dazzled her, reminded her of all the reasons why she had chosen him, why she had fallen in love with him, why, despite all of the darkness lurking within her, she hadn't been able to leave him. She couldn't remember what had happened that night, what had driven her to come and find him. Violet could remember being miserable, remember walking to his house, waiting under his window. It was the beginning of it all, and it was all she cared to recall.

She was thankful to the woman in their house, for convincing her to stay with Tate, to trust him, to let her life take its course. Nora had told her about how he'd cried. She'd said that she'd never heard someone cry that way. At the time, Violet hadn't believed a word of it, hadn't been able to conceive of the notion that Tate could be so attached to her. But, sitting beside him on that bus, being taken away to someplace she had never gone before, away from everything she had ever known, she knew that it must have been true. And she knew how she would cry when it was time for them to say goodbye. Violet wouldn't let him see, though. She wouldn't let him see her fear or her sorrow. She would make it easy for him.

The only regret either of them had was that they hadn't found one another earlier. They'd seen each other all their lives, everywhere they went. Yet they'd never taken the hint, not until it was too late, until there was hardly any time left.

"We're going to be happy." Violet told him, knowing in her soul that the promise would be hard to keep. She would always be happy to have Tate, of course. But how could they ever truly be happy? They would never be married, never have children or start a family. They would never grow old, never see the other age. They would die just exactly as they were, but Violet couldn't let that phase her. "I love you, Tate."

"Forever and ever." he finished, not wanting to pause to think of how untrue this was. He would love her in death then, he swore to himself.


	14. Room With a View, Please

Author's Note: Again, I'm so happy that you guys take the time to read. Please add me to your favorites list and your alert so that you can read my other fics and tell me what you think! Love you all!

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Nearly an entire day later, they found themselves in a small town near Denver, known as Boulder, Colorado. They'd slept a good part of the way, but had taken time between stops to see sights. It had all seemed so easy, so carefree, but they were both tired now, and it was almost midnight. The two found a place to stay at a small motel off the main road back into the city. Tate went to get the room, because he looked older and, as they determined, would be seen as less conspicuous.

The story was that they had just graduated from high school, and that they were on a road trip for the summer, before they each went away to college. It had been Violet's idea, but she was beginning to feel uneasy. She barely passed for fifteen. But Tate could convince people, she hoped. He would have to. They had no other options, if they were to succeed in this plan that she had concocted, that he had so willingly agreed to.

When he came back out of the main office, he was smiling, dangling a room key in one hand and leading her towards the end of the walkway with the other. The room was small, but quaint in a way. Violet almost liked it, almost thought she would like to stay for a while. Of course, they couldn't. They would need to keep moving, keep changing locations and identities. To anyone they met, she was Larraine—her middle name—and Tate, likewise, was Christopher. They were silly names, she thought, but they would have to do.

"It isn't too bad." He said, wrapping his arms around her waste from behind and kissing her neck. She was stiff, and he hated it. This body language was never a good sign; he had learned that quickly. "Relax, Vi. There's nothing to worry about. We're all alone, just you and me. They probably haven't even noticed that we're gone yet."

The horrible thing about that statement was that it was the truth. Violet and Tate both had always been introverts, and not seeing them around would mean nothing to any of their parents. Vivien and Ben might not notice for days, they fought so often. And Constance had too many obligations, too many social engagements. Tate felt no pity for her. She had always been a selfish woman, a bad mother to all of her children—even Addie, who had certainly never deserved it.

Tate spun Violet around, looked into her eyes, then moved to kiss her, pressing his lips roughly to hers in a desperate effort to break her concentration, to distract her from all of the thoughts that lurked in the corners of her mind, threatening to tear her apart. He wanted her to be happy there, with him. He wanted her to feel the freedom that he did, to experience the excitement of being on her own for the first time. How often did that happen? Certainly not to a fifteen-year-old girl.

Eventually, she gave in, reacting to his touch the way that he knew she would in the end. She never could seem to pull herself away, to withdrawal herself from him very far. There was just something about the way Tate's hands felt on her body, the way he gripped her arms tightly, the way he pushed her backwards against the wall behind them. There was nothing comforting about this kiss. Rather it was driven by passion and pure need; that was exactly the way Violet liked it too. The night ended the same way the previous one had, with lovemaking—not too gentle, but lovemaking nevertheless.

As they lay in bed afterwards, Violet began to reflect on her life, on the way that things had always been. She couldn't help but be angry for all of the time that she had wasted, all of the days and weeks and months she had thrown away being miserable. If only she could have met Tate sooner, she could have been happy for so much longer. Yet she doubted that she would have been able to appreciate him anywhere near as much as she did in that moment. Because, then, they could see each other perfectly, for what they really were. They could both understand, and they could both live like they were dying. They could live like they were dying because they were.

She didn't worry about what their touches meant, what sex meant, what their love meant. She didn't worry that she wasn't pretty enough for him of that he was only using her. She didn't feel self-conscious, though she might have had she not been covered by sheets. She only felt secure and contented, and the tiniest bit numb from the lack of pain. She had grown so accustomed to it over the years, and it seemed to have disappeared—both physically and emotionally. She couldn't feel the throbbing in her head or the heaviness of her body as she would have any other time. She could only feel how magnificent it felt to have her skin against his, to have his arms wrapped tenderly around her shoulders.

And Tate couldn't help but think that he could not feel the pain either, could not seem to find the weariness within himself. He only adore that she was beside him, that she wanted him the way she did, that he could have her, again and again, as many times as he wanted, as many times as she wished. He was the only one, the only person to ever know her in that way, the first and last person to make her feel that way, to see her without any barriers between them, and he could think of nothing else, especially not the sickness or the pain.

They couldn't help but wonder why, not that it mattered in the least. They were glad they couldn't feel it, glad that there was so much room for other feeling, more enjoyable ones, feelings that made them feel alive.


	15. Home Is Where the Heart Is

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

They were in San Francisco now. It was nearing the end of July and the air was hot. The summer was coming to a close, but neither Violet nor Tate seemed to notice. This was their eternal summer, and they were sure it would never end. They were not sick, not when they were smiling and laughing together, and they were not dying—not for the moment. He wove his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him as they walked down the street. The air was so heavy, oppressive, but it was the most glorious heaven. Tate chuckled at something Violet had said, feeling like he was immortal.

"How long has it been, Vi? How long since we first met up?" He thought about it, did the figures in his head. She, on the other hand, didn't put much thought into it at all.

"Does it matter? Months. We've always been together, Tate. That's the way I see it."

And he loved that she saw it that way. But he had to ask. "Do you ever think about home?"

She wished he hadn't brought it up, but there was nothing to hide. She did not think about home; she only thought about her mother, about the baby, about how far along the pregnancy would be by this time. "Only sometimes, at night…"

Usually, he would fall asleep before Violet, her small body curled into his side. And he would always wonder if she was sleeping too. He guessed that that statement answered his question. In the nights, she was tortured, he was certain now. It was characteristic of Violet, to wait until he couldn't know what she was doing, what she was feeling, to let all of the worries and grief overcome her. She didn't like to let him see her cry, but he hated it when she hid things from him. He wanted to be in every part of her life, to know her in and out, to know her like she knew him—and Violet knew Tate better than he knew himself even. Always, though, she would hide things away, bury them beneath her smiles and vague blanketing answers.

"Do you want to go back?" He wondered if maybe she didn't, if maybe she had changed her mind. It was so unlike her to do something like that, to decide not to do something that had been her idea. The girl he knew never backed down. But, perhaps, he didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

"No. I don't think that would be a good idea."

He stopped her, pulled her to the side of the street, into one of the alleys along the walk. Once he had her attention, he looked into her eyes, a serious expression on his face, marring his once-giddy countenance. "I didn't ask you if you thought it was a good idea. I asked you if you _wanted_ to go back." She looked away from him, down at her hands. "Listen, Violet, we're coming down to the wire now. This is the end. If we're going to do this, we'll be doing it soon. So I need to know if we're still on the same page. If you changed your mind, if you don't want to…you know…I'll understand. Just tell me. Please, Vi, I need you to be honest with me."

A traitorous tear slid down her cheek and she moved quickly to wipe it away. She hated her weakness, her inability to keep anything from being ruined by no one but herself and nothing but her own problems and complications. "I haven't changed my mind about that. I still want to die with you, Tate. I don't want to die slowly. I want to die exactly like we are now." He almost wanted to smile, but he couldn't. It was a difficult thing to smile about—their self-demise. But Tate understood how she felt. He didn't want to die, yet it was unavoidable. And, so, if he must die, he would prefer to die with Violet at his side, by her hand or his own and not that of his affliction. She continued. "But I've been thinking…and it doesn't feel right to do it here. I want to do it back in our house, back in Los Angeles. It—it would mean a lot to me, to end it there, with all of the memories." Their first kiss played back to him in his mind and he couldn't help but agree. "No one will find the bodies there, not for a long time."

The bodies. Their bodies. He had become so in touch with them in the past few months, the ways in which they operated, both his own and hers. It was morbidly humorous to think that they would soon just be bodies, not themselves, not people anymore. Maybe Tate was losing it. He didn't know, wasn't entirely sure, but he tried not to think about it too much.

"It's that simple, then. We'll go back."

They packed their bags, prepared to hitch hike most of the way. The entire time they had been gone, Violet realized, they had really just been gravitating back towards home, moving in a strange loop, closer and closer to the place where their hearts truly lay. They were together, but there was something about that town, about that house, that they were so attached to. Tate felt it too, as though it were almost painful to be away. It required a conscious effort to stay away, to not think of it.

To the young couple, it seemed only fitting that they should kill themselves in the place where all of their love had begun, where he had first worked up the courage to kiss her. She recalled the wigi board lovingly as they stood by the side of the road, trying to catch a ride. Had the circumstances been different, had she not been forced to participate in these sorts of activities quite frequently as of most recent, she might have been a little skittish about hitching. But Tate never seemed to feel intimidated, and promised that he wouldn't let anyone hurt her. Somehow, Violet couldn't help but believe him, couldn't help but have absolute faith that he would protect her from everything.

And what good was he to her, he thought, if he could not shield her from whatever pain he could? He loved her, and that was what love was, wasn't it?


	16. Unwelcoming

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

The plans were set. They would kill themselves in the room where they had first kissed. Violet still didn't know how it would happen. She had showed him the pills that she carried in her bag, but Tate had insisted that he knew a better way, a faster and more certain method which they could use. And, of course, she trusted him.

There was one thing that Tate would have to do in order to follow through with this plan, and it would be harder than anything, he knew, mainly because he didn't really want to do it. This was a necessity. So, while Violet sat in their house, preparing for their last night together, Tate walked through the front door of his house, turning the knob as silently as he could manage. He didn't want to see her, to have to face her. It wouldn't change his mind, but it wouldn't exactly make his day.

From underneath his bed, Tate withdrew a box that had belonged to his father, containing various firearms that he had never known much about. However, his preferred weapon which it contained laid at the very bottom, protected because it had been his father's most treasured one as well—a set of old antique pistols, each loaded with one bullet which the man had never intended for anyone to fire. It was perfect in a way, Tate thought, and he saw no better way to end his life than with this. Just to be safe, he checked the barrel, ran his fingers over the ivory of the handle.

Then, his mind wondered to the places that he had seen that summer, to the things that he and Violet had done. It was a blur of motel rooms, trains, people's car's, tiny Americana diners all along the western highways. His hands found their way to the earring that Violet had put through one of his ears: a small silver stud, the match to which pierced her own. She had thought of it, but he liked it very much, the idea that they matched in more ways than one—rather they matched in many ways. The tattoo on his arm reminded him of her first wish, and then of her second. Violet had wanted to spend an entire night away from home, but he given her more than that. He had given her nights, filled with things that she didn't dare to tell her parents about. More than anything, Tate believed that Violet had wanted to rebel, and he had served those purposes well. It made him chuckle to himself as he packed the pistols away in a back pack.

"And just what exactly do you think you're going to do with those? Sell them?" It was Constance's voice that spoke the words, making the muscles in his back tense. She always ruined things. She was so good at it.

"No." He snapped, turning to face her. She stood there, leaning against the door post, clad in her usual nightly garb which hadn't been in style since the 1960s. "I'm going to shoot myself in the head." It was a simple statement, and, somehow, Tate felt no guilt in it. Violet, the girl he so dearly loved, suffered from caring too much, from worrying too much about what would happen to her family after she was gone, what that loss of life would do to them. But Tate knew better. His mother would do just fine without him. She wouldn't mourn him for very long at all, and she would blame him for his fate, just as she had with the others—with Adelaide and Beau. Even when his father had left, she had refused to assume any of the responsibility which was, for the most part, all hers.

"Don't be ridiculous, Tate. We both know it won't do any good for you to shoot yourself."

Her voice was even, undisturbed, and that bothered him more than anything. "You can't change my mind." And she scoffed at him, taking a seat on his bed, smoothing out the skirt of her nightgown.

"I don't need to, dear. You and I both know the truth. Now, come on, Tate. Just come home. Stop all of this foolishness."

"I won't!" he shouted moving towards the door, fully prepared to leave that vile woman, everything, behind him forever. He was prepared to never look back.

"Why did you come back? You seemed perfectly happy to run off with that little harlot of yours. Little whore…how long did you know her before she slept with you? A few days? A week? You're better than that, darling. In truth, I'm very disappointed in the choices you've been making lately."

Tate's anger flared at her words, not at what she had said about him but all of the awful things she had said in a front to Violet. The nerve she had, he marveled at it, but she would not get away with it. "You are dead to me, Constance. And, soon, I'll be dead too, for good."

Then, she spoke the words that ended their conversation for good. Her voice was sad, pitying, yet still full of that same condescending attitude which distinguished her from all others. "Son, you've been dead for a long time." The conviction behind the statement was enough to break anyone's heart, but not Tate's. It only fueled his hatred for the woman which had given him life.

He left. He'd been dead in her mind long before he had ever decided to die, he knew. But this would be the end. There would be no pain from her, or from anything. When he met up with Violet, he didn't speak, he only brought his mouth to hers, kissed her like he had never kissed her before, with more force than was necessary. But he needed it. He needed it so badly, so desperately. The two wasted to time of removing the barriers between them, rocking back and forth until neither one of them could breathe. They were both exhausted, both broken, both yearning for the night to never end. But, of course, they each knew that it would, all in good time.

And that time would come sooner rather than later.


	17. Till Death Do Us Part

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

When Violet and Tate got up in the morning, they knew it was time…

"We don't have to do it right this minute." she told him, hoping to alleviate some of his nerves. His hand shook in hers, clutching to her pale white fingers for dear life. But he was so tired, so sick. She hated to see him so miserable.

They were both going to die. It was only a matter of time—when and where the final moment would find them. It could be at school, in the hospital, at home. Tate and Violet had known each other casually for years, but had never had a reason to really _know_ one another until now. It was illness that had initially brought them together and this union was no different. It was cancer, too extensive to be healed. Neither of them would have the chance to live much longer, but they hated the idea of wasting away.

Tate wanted to be brave. He didn't want to hesitate. He wanted to make Violet feel safe, make her feel comfortable to be with him in those final moments. This was all that they would ever have, but it was difficult. He had assumed that dying would be easy. He had been so close so many times. But, now that the time had actually come, he found himself terrified. He didn't know what he would find on the other side, if he would be judged, forgiven or condemned. He wasn't sure that he had been a good person, wasn't sure that he had been a bad one either. And he hated the notion of leaving the world without being sure.

Violet found it hard to think. Her mind had been slowly slipping away as the disease progressed, but she could still make her own decisions. She didn't want to get too sick. She didn't want to forget things, people. She wanted to die with her memories, with Tate, with the consolation that she had lived her life fully. She wanted to die alive. And, as she watched Tate shiver beside her, she knew that this was right. Human emotion was something she craved, something she needed. To wither away in its absence would be insufferable.

A tear fell from her eye as she looked at him, so broken, but so strong. He had endured so much pain—just like her. "Tate, do you not want to do this?" She didn't want to force him, didn't want to take away his life when he wasn't ready to give it up yet.

He shook his head in denial. "I want to, Vi. I'm just saying goodbye. I need to say goodbye."

It was easy to understand what he meant. They were young…very young. The world seemed so new and wonderful, and yet it had too quickly become a dark place. They had run from it for as long as they could, pretended to be a part of the vitality. But they had not been able to outrun time, to outrun nature or destiny. Eventually, reality had found them, in a place where they didn't think reality ever could be found.

He squeezed her hand lovingly, kissed each of her knuckles, held her slender finger against his cheek for a moment, wanting desperately to remember her like this—human, vulnerable and, most importantly, in love with him. Nothing seemed to matter besides that, and he felt more at peace as he realized this truth. She was everything. Without her, there would be no point to living, or even dying.

The pistols rested in their other hands. With a knowing look, they made their choice. This would be the end of the road, the end of their story—twisted and shrouded in darkness and tribulation. Yet, they wouldn't have traded it for the world. They know the truth. This is all they will ever need, for eternity. As their lips meet, they bring the barrels of the guns to rest on each other's temples. The metal almost pulses over that point on Violet's scull: the source of all her troubles. She thinks it's beautiful, in a way, and so does he, much better than the fate that they would face otherwise.

As their lips move against one another, their hands intertwine, they pull the trigger, and it's all over. It was what they set out to do from the very beginning, but it's more. This was what they had wanted, even before they had known it: to die loved and unafraid, in the arms of the person that they could never be without. In the end, they are Romeo and Juliet—star-crossed lovers, their wounds symbols of their love and dedication, their unfailing faith that this was what was best for them. They were not dead, only resting, forever, hearts and souls interlaced in a knot that could never be undone.

They both heard the gunshot. And they both knew what had happened. And, for a minute, maybe they thought that this was death, their souls lingering. But, when Violet opened her eyes, she realized that nothing had changed. Tate was still in front of her, his eyes slammed tightly shut, his lips slightly open as they had been as he'd kissed her mouth. He looked afraid, just as he had before she had pulled the trigger, and Violet didn't understand.

So, what did she do? Naturally, she screamed.

His eyes flashed open immediately and Tate looked deeply into her face, searching for answers in vain. He wouldn't find them, because she had no explanation. It was not until she turned her head to look out the window that horror truly struck him. There was the bullet hole, oozing crimson fluid, blood coloring her light brown hair.

"V-V-Violet?" He stuttered, his eyes wide with unshed tears and an open mouth. He didn't know what to think, what to say, how to tell her what he saw. It didn't make any sense. But he couldn't tell Violet. She would panic, not that she wasn't already panicking. The he wondered. Did he have the same wound? Tate turned his head to the side, and the shriek that came from her mouth only confirmed that he did.

"Tate, what happened to us? What? I don't understand. I…" He needed her to relax, needed her not to cry. He hated to see the tears, but he hated to see the wound more—the wound that he had inflicted.

As he watched her, sobbing into her hands with confusion and grief, he noticed that the bullet hole was growing smaller, that the blood was quickly drying, the flesh regenerating and resealing her skull. Then, the injury was gone altogether, leaving only a trail of dark blood in its wake. Violet saw Tate's head do the same.

What had happened to them?

Then, Tate remembered. His mother's words resounding in his head. _You've been dead for a long time._


	18. Death and the Boy

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Violet ran out the front door, moving faster than he had ever seen her move, even when the cops had almost caught them over the summer. She looked a little drunk, stumbling and tripping up the street. Tate tried to catch her, but she wouldn't stop, only ran faster, harder, working herself into a frenzy and shouting at Tate as though he was the thing that had frightened her.

"Stay away from me, Tate!" she screamer, sprinting towards her house. It broke his heart to hear it, and, though he had tried to stop her before, he couldn't continue on after her. She would relax, come find him if she wanted to. There was nothing he could do beyond that.

Feeling his head where the bullet had entered and lodged in his brain, Tate noted that everything was as good as new, as though nothing had ever happened. He had not died when she pulled the trigger, but he didn't understand why. Was he really dead? Could his mother have meant that literally? And, if he was, how had it happened? He wondered. Why didn't he remember dying? Violet refused to accept the possibility, but Tate would find the truth.

So he went in search of the one woman who he hated most in that world: Constance. She was still at home, seated in her parlor room, reading through a small brown book filled with messy scrawl written in blue ink. As he read over her shoulder, he saw that the handwriting belonged to none other than Violet. "Where did you get that?" Tate demanded as she turned to look him in the eye, all smiles and Revlon foundation. Her blush was too heavy, but he hardly noticed. All he saw was those awful gray eyes, staring up at him with the feigned motherly love that he had always despised.

"Darling, I knew you'd be back soon. How was the suicide? Or is it just mutilation for you people? Can you die a second time?" Her tone was patronizing, made him want to squeeze the life from her vile body, but the fear of her ghost haunting him too kept him from following through with the thought. "And how is your slut? A pair of masochists, the both of you…but to each his own, I suppose."

Constance only confused him further. With a hate-filled grimace, he moved closer. "What happened to us? Why didn't the shots kill us?"

Tate would receive no reply. "So it was a double-fake-suicide then. Wonderful." The smugness permeated through the room and, again, he considered strangling the woman before him.

"What are you talking about? What do you know, Constance?"

Her face fell with the words, her expression of triumph replaced by one of misunderstanding. "Don't you understand, dear? I thought you knew. You're dead, Tate. You've been dead for quite a while now."

Even though he had half-expected this response, he was shocked. "What? But Violet and I…"

"Ah, yes…" his mother mused, rising to take a cigarette from where they rested in a box on the mantle. "The night I walked in on you two it was like Night of the Living Dead. I nearly had a heart attack. But leave it to my son to find the only other dead girl around and nail her." The way she phrased it infuriated Tate to the point where he couldn't control himself anymore. He moved across the room, took her throat in his hands, and tightened them around her neck until the life had drained away. She turned blue, fell to the floor in a heap of glamour and hairspray, the spitting image of every fantasy he'd ever had since she'd killed Beau.

Yet, a moment later, she rose to her feet again, twisted her neck back and forth and rubbing the place where he had targeted her until the bruises vanished. Tate fell backwards, appalled. "Are you dead too?"

Constance laughed. "You really don't get it, do you? You're a ghost, Tate. You're dead. You couldn't kill anything, not even a mouse. It would come back, just like it had never happened. You're not here anymore, not physically anyway. You can't change anything in the living world. I suppose it was much easier for the others to understand. Beau never complains. Then again, you always were a little whiney…altogether too sensitive a boy, a poet's soul, really, but none of the steel to go along with it. I wasn't at all surprised when I found you. I'd expected it. I never could understand how you could be so weak—my child."

He would have killed her again had he been able to move. But he couldn't breathe and it was bothering him, despite the fact that the air was unnecessary. Constance continued. "Manipulation is your only ally now. Violence won't solve anything. You could always convince someone else, someone living to kill me, but could you honestly live with the guilt of ruining someone else's life for your own selfish purposes? I doubt it, son. I honestly don't think you'd be able to stand it. Even that tramp of yours couldn't keep you sane."

"Violet is not a tramp." Tate seethed, his teeth bared, transforming his face into a horrible face that surprised even Constance.

"I do wonder though…what is it like to have intercourse post mortem? Is it really the same?" Not that Tate would know. Violet had been his first, and he had already been dead.

"When did I die, Constance? When did she die?"

"You offed yourself the day we got the diagnosis, back at the beginning of the new semester. You couldn't stand the idea of chemo. Don't you remember? We had your funeral out of state, back in Virginia with my family. I wasn't about to be alone with another corpse. Addie's funeral was awful enough to last me a lifetime." Tate stared straight ahead, not registering half of what she was telling him. He had been dead for nearly six months. How had he not known? And how had he met Violet when he was dead? How long ago had she died? "As for that girl, you could read it for yourself. I took her diary from her bag when you two were asleep—utterly naked, might I add." She didn't need to add it, but she did all the same. She wanted to make him feel shame, but Tate didn't feel a thing. He only took the small brown book in his hand, trying to quell his fury at her having taken something of Violet's. It was only in her nature and it didn't surprise him in the least, not that that made it any less disgusting.

The last words before she had passed splayed across the page and it made tears fall from Tate's eyes. The date was that same day she had come to his house, the time just hours before. Had she come to him so quickly and never realized the truth of the situation? More than anything, this was the evidence that Tate needed.

Dear Diary,

This will be my last entry. I had thought about waiting. Tate had wanted me to, but I hardly know him. I would have liked to, though. I guess I'll never get the chance.

Tonight, I heard Vivien of the phone with her mother back in Boston. She said she was pregnant, and I realized something very important. I don't want to wait until the end of the summer. I don't want to do that to her half-way through the pregnancy. I want it to be happy experience for my parents, and so I have come to this conclusion.

There are enough pills in my purse to do the job, and my parents are fighting downstairs. Ben's old girlfriend called him, but he says that nothing happened. I don't know if I believe him or not, but it doesn't really matter anymore. I'm taking the whole bottle, and then I'm going to go lie in the bathtub and wait to die. I think, maybe, if the pills don't kill me—just knock me out—maybe I'll drown anyhow.

If anyone finds this, I want them to make sure that this is known: I love my mom and dad. I hope they're very happy. In fact, I want them to be happy, for me, but, more importantly, for that baby. I hope that it will bring them together, but, if it doesn't, I hope my mom can do it alone. I don't want to die, but this is the reality of my life. I was never meant to live very long anyhow. So, this is goodbye.

Violet.

Tears were streaming down his face now as he tossed the book aside. The very notion of her dying alone, of her dying miserable, made him sick as it ran through his mind. He had never wanted that for her, and he had been unable to stop it, as he had wanted to. But what could he do? He was only a dead boy, after all.


	19. Forever and Never

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

Violet sat in her room alone. She had climbed in the bedroom window that she always left unlocked, just in case she needed to sneak in or out. But Violet had never thought she would need it to be open for this reason—because she was afraid that her parents would see her, crying and possibly dead. IT seemed so ridiculous, so impossible. She wondered if Tate had something to do with this, if there was something wrong with him, if she had fallen into his trap. Violet had never believed in the Devil, or in demons or even in ghosts. But now, she wasn't so sure. It was confusing; Tate had always seemed so pure, so boyish and innocent, and so loving towards her. He had protected her and loved her. But then there were the images of him bloodied, a gaping hole in the side of his head, a hole that she had put there, and she didn't know what to think. Was she crazy? Violet didn't know.

She didn't notice the sound of the window being pushed up, or the sound of someone easing themself through it. When Tate came to place a hand on her shoulder, she didn't react right away. It was not until he placed his head in the crook of her neck that she finally came around, reentered the gruesome reality which was her life—or un-life, whatever it was.

"Don't touch me." She hissed, pulling away and scooting across the floor, away from the boy who had, in the past six months, become her personal savior. She didn't know him anymore, didn't understand what she had seen or what had happened between them. She had thought their love for one another was the only thing in the world that she could be sure of. Now, she was sure of nothing, not even her own existence.

"Vi, let me explain." he pleaded and her eyes only grew wider.

"You knew something about this? You…" But Tate stopped her before she could go any farther.

"No. I just went to see Constance. She explained some things to me…things that I didn't know before either." She didn't say a word, only moved farther away from him, looking at him with fear and uncertainty. He couldn't stand it. He burst into tears, too ashamed to look at her any longer. "Please, Violet. I'm just as scared as you are. I need you."

She thought about that for a minute, and her heart melted. She was always putty in his hands, but she surely couldn't withstand his sobs, the way his shoulders shook with grief. When Tate cried, he let everything go, lost complete control. She came close to him again, leaning into his side and beginning to cry herself. "Tell me what she told you, Tate." It was hard for her to get the words out, but her support brought him back to the moment, away from all of the pain that he felt, threatening to break him to pieces. His entire world had been shattered, but he needed to be strong for Violet's sake.

"We're dead, Violet." he told her, his deep voice breaking as he forced out the sentence. It sounded so odd to hear from his own lips, and it was just as odd for her to hear. How could she be dead when she had felt so alive just hours before? It seemed impossible to her, but why would Tate lie? He believed this, and so she assumed that it must be true.

"When did we die?" Violet asked, kissing his cheek and tasting the saltiness of the tears. The idea that he was no longer in the world seemed impossible to her, incomprehensible.

"I killed myself in February, after I found out about my relapse. I think I shot myself, but it's hard to remember. I thought about it on my way over, but it's too fuzzy. Yesterday, I didn't even know the memories were there. It's almost impossible to dredge them up now." Violet hunched over in his lap and he ran his hands through her hair, desperate to comfort her. "You took the pills in your bag."

And then, the memories came flooding back to her. Violet could remember, the night that she had heard her mother over the phone. She could remember swallowing the bottle of sleeping pills, remember filling the bathtub. She had sat there for a while, letting the sleepiness take her. She had woken up later on, in her bed, listening to the sound of her mother crying in the bathroom across the hall. She had assumed it was because of her father. Now, she realized it was because she had found her body. After that, Violet had set out to find Tate. When she came to think of it, she hadn't actually looked him up in the school directory. She had just found him, been pulled to him, like gravity.

"I died the night I first came to see you."

Tate nodded sadly, pulling her into his lap and kissing her everywhere he could reach—her neck, her hair, her cheeks and her forehead. She shook a little, but the tears had stopped falling. Everything was deathly silent, and this began to worry him. "Yes, that's right. Do you remember it?" Violet nodded sadly.

"I hardly feel anything."

Tate could feel his heart crumbling into a million pieces he hated to see her so unhappy, hated the thought of her hating the notion of spending eternity with him. He had been sad, of course, but then he had thought about things, realized what it all meant. He would have her forever. He would never have to lose her, as he had previously thought he would, and so it wasn't so awful. It would be, however, if she didn't want him anymore, if she couldn't be with him because he was dead. This seemed like such a trivial thing, when you were in love. Tate couldn't comprehend the idea of not loving Violet, no matter what state of being she existed in. She would always be Violet, his beautiful girl, the only girl he would ever want for the rest of eternity. Yet, she had been dead all along.

They had never known each other in life, but it seemed that knowing each other in death had proved to be more important.

"So, you were dead the first time we spoke?" she questioned, and he nodded again.

"I guess I was. I'm sorry if that scares you. I didn't have any idea. I thought I was alive. My mom was still speaking to me, but she's a monster. She knew that I was dead and she never treated me any different."

The bile rose in the back of Violet's throat at this. She hated the woman for what she had done to Tate in his life, for all of the awful things that she had inflicted upon him. "I hate her."

"It doesn't matter." Hate seemed like such a petty emotion. Love was far more important. "I just need to know that you're alright. I'll leave you alone, if you want. Is that what you want, Violet?"

She stared at him with panicked eyes, tugging at the collar of his shirt desperately. "Please, don't leave me, Tate."

And he didn't. He stayed right there, by her side, soothing her. She thought of everything that had happened. She knew why people had stared at him the day that they had eaten lunch in the cafeteria together. No one had seen her, because she had not wanted them to see her. But Tate liked the attention, and so they all saw him. But Tate was supposed to have been dead. Violet's parents had not seen her because she had always wanted to be invisible. Over the summer, that had changed. She had become a part of the world again, without actually being in it.

They had seen the world, but their bodies had never left the ground. And they loved one another, but only with their souls, their celestial bodies. Violet decided that it did not matter if they were dead, if this was all there would ever be for them. There was nothing to be done then, but it was better than nothing. So, she would be happy, as happy as she could be. Because living a shadow of an eternity with Tate was far better than living a half-life without him.

"I love you." She murmured as they grew exhausted. It was all mental, all emotional, but they felt tired all the same. They were only spirits, but even spirits needed rest.

"I love you, too, Violet. Forever."

And they truly did have forever, whatever form of it they could have together.


	20. Reconcilliation

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.

They were standing in front of the grave marked Violet Lorraine Harmon, 1995-2010, Beloved Friend and Daughter. It was such a typical epitaph and, had Violet not been too distraught at seeing her own crypt before her very eyes, she might have complained of how generic those words were. Instead, the just crumpled to the ground, crying, running her hands over the engraving and wondering how any of it could be real. Tate sat beside her, of course, thinking about her fate and how things might have been different. Unfortunately, as much us he looked for a different solution to their problems, he couldn't find one. They had always been destined to die, and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. He couldn't have taken her pain away, couldn't have taken his away either. Maybe, it was even for the best.

"It's just too weird." Violet murmured to herself more than to Tate, shaking her head in disbelief. She could feel the pulse running through the veins that weren't there, hear her heartbeat that she knew didn't really exist. She could feel the touch of the boy who she loved, the one who had been dead for half a year, and she couldn't reconcile any of it with the idea that they weren't alive anymore, that her body was in the ground below them and that his was all the way across the country.

Tate got to his feet, pulling Violet along with him. He had told her everything that he had learned, and that wasn't much. But there were many things that they had discovered. It was easy to come to where Tate's body was, because as soon as the two had the thought they were there. He had a connection to it, and so it was easy for his soul to find. Violet only had to follow closely behind him.

It was a sight just as morbid as the one in the California cemetery. Tate Christopher Langdon, it read, 1993-2010. There was no words to pronounce his character to passers-by, only those simple words to describe who he had one been. Now, he was only a shadow of his former self. He didn't cry like Violet had, maybe because he had never been as attached to the people in his life as she had been. There hadn't been much that he had truly loved, aside from his brother and sister and they had been gone long before him. Until he had met Violet, he'd had no reason to live, and by the time she was a part of his life, he didn't have a life to lose. He had already taken his own. It was not sad for him then, because there was nothing in the world for him to miss. He only wanted Violet, and time spent with her until he had lost track of the time. What mattered more than that?

"It doesn't bother you?" she questioned, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. She was afraid that he would snap, that he wouldn't be able to cope. Violet had always been a very strong person, but Tate had a tendency towards weakness, to being volatile. She knew that, and so she was worried that he would react violently—not that it would matter. She was already dead.

Tate could hear the hidden question in her voice, and responded smoothly, without even thinking. "I'm fine. I already freaked out once over this. I strangled Constance." Realizing what he had said, he turned to look Violet in the eye. "It's out of my system, I promise."

But she didn't understand. "Constance is dead?"

"Oh, no. We can't kill anyone, Vi, not really, not with our own hands. She came right back."

She stared at him, thinking this over. They couldn't change the world that way, couldn't take people in and out of it. She would never have children, never grow old. It made her sad to think that she and Tate could never be more than what they were, though she had known this all along. She found it difficult to really feel anything, however, aside from her anger. "I wish she could have died." Violet sneered, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she could. It made her feel unusually small, but she didn't mind.

As usual, Violet surprised Tate with her response, but she was always full of surprises. It was one of the things that he loved about her, but it was also one of the things that he hated. So long as she still loved him, he was fairly sure that she could do anything she wanted, and that he would have no trouble forgiving her, overlooking it. In his eyes, she could do no wrong. He would never see her as anything less than flawless.

As they walked away, arms wrapped around each other, her head resting on his shoulder, Violet thought of all the time that they had spent together. She remembered speaking to Nora that day and couldn't help but scold herself. She should have known all along, should have realized the truth about them. And, perhaps, somewhere deep down within herself, she had. It was not wanting to know that kept her from remembering the thing that she had done to herself. Tate had been dead for even longer than her. She had spoken to him for the first time when he had been dead for about a month. Nothing had changed, nothing except for her. She was the one who had died. He'd always been the dead boy, for as long as she had known him. It was an unusual thing to admit to herself, but it made her smile at the irony of the entire situation.

"Do you remember when I told you that we could be like ghosts?" asked Violet, grinning up at him. He smirked, and nodded that he did indeed remember. "I think maybe I always knew, somehow. I didn't want to remember, not until I had to. I actually felt guilty for what I had done to myself, and I didn't want to accept it. I panicked when I saw the body, in the tub. I don't know that I really thought the pills would work. I don't know that I even wanted to die, not really."

Tate frowned, kissed her on the head. He had wanted to die, he knew, because there was nothing left for him. "I died for you, Violet. I didn't understand, at first, but now I do. I died so that I could be with you when you did. I knew too."

It was strangely final, as though it put them to rest. They were not bitter, not sad. They were accepting—accepting of their fate and the fact that this was their new reality. This was their life in death, and there would be nothing beyond it. As the sun set, they walked away from the cemetery, silhouetted by the light and the shadows. Violet chuckled to herself at a thought.

"We're ghost lovers, Tate. We're literal soul mates." He laughed at this too, as they rounded the corner, back onto the street. The world suddenly seemed small, because they had an eternity to roam it.

"I guess we are."

Their end had come long ago, but this would be their new beginning.

The End


End file.
